That's My Waistcoat
by finalproblem
Summary: The story of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, in which Watson departs 221B to live with his new wife, Holmes isn't sure if he can handle life without him, and the events that follow change the way the two see each other for the rest of their lives. -NOT SLASH-
1. Part One

_**Part One**_

"Holmes," I called, peering out from behind the door-frame. "Have you seen my green waistcoat?"

"No."

Sherlock Holmes was tucked up into his favorite armchair, hair askew, clothes rumpled, smoking his old clay pipe. Papers, chemical stains, spilled ink, and other unidentifiable items littered the floor around him. Though the large back of the old armchair concealed him from my sight, I could still see faint wisps of smoke drifting out from behind the chair-backing and leaving a rather poisonous gray haze over the room.

He was in a frightful mood, and had been for some time. Ever since I had told him I was leaving. Leaving with Mary.

I waved the smoke from my face and sighed. "Holmes," said I, "I'm going to live with my _wife. _I don't know why you think I would stay here with you when I have my own lodgings to share with Mary. You're being unreasonable."

I waited impatiently for his bitter response, but it never came. I rubbed my brow in annoyance and started across the room to face him.

"Holmes-" I began.

He sat puffing away at his pipe, his face sour, knees pressed to his chest. Upon glancing down at the floor, I saw poor Gladstone, his twisted legs stuck out like some horrible pretzel.

"What have you done?" I cried, kneeling upon the floor to closer inspect the dog. I pressed two gentle fingers against his neck, and could feel a faint pulse beneath the thick fat and fur. At least he was alive, the poor beast.

Raising, I gave my companion a venomous look and brushed the dirt from my knees. "I don't care how upset you are, Holmes," said I, snatching my walking-stick from a nearby table, "And repeatedly trying to kill my dog is not going to make me stay. The way you've been these last few weeks has been selfish and distracting. At this point, I'll be glad to leave behind your constant shadow of obsession and remorse. I'm leaving in three days, and you're not stopping me. Now, if you don't mind, I'm still missing that waistcoat."

Turning on my heel, I exited the smoky room and left behind my companion, closing the door behind me with a loud crash.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes sat in his armchair and listened. Listened to John Watson.

Though Holmes' mind was great, he could not find any logic – any reason – for the departure of his beloved Boswell. A wife was no good excuse. What good were women, anyway? The sex was annoying and troublesome.

Watson slammed the door behind him, and Sherlock Holmes winced. Giving a small sigh, he murmured, "It's not your dog. It's _our_ dog," and lowered his knees to reveal an olive green waistcoat worn over his shirt that just so happened to have the small inscription 'J. W.' upon the inner front flap.

* * *

The next day started off very well. I woke up long before Holmes and was able to skip over his sour mood altogether. I ate a light breakfast of toast and tea, prepared by the loving Mrs. Hudson. I was going to miss the dear old woman. She had always been kind to me.

I then took a quick trip to Mary's to pick her up, and we took a short voyage by dog-cart to the local theater together to see _Don Giovanni_. The name struck my memories and reminded me of Holmes; on our final case together, he had commented on the very opera my wife and I were going to see.

But then, of course, I soon proceeded to punch him in the face. I had enjoyed that.

When the opera was done, it was already time for dinner, and Mary invited me to her parent's for a nice home-cooked meal. Happy at the invitation, I accepted, eager to spend more time away from the poisonous attitude my room-mate had acquired.

During the meal, Mary's parents asked me about Holmes. How had he been? What was he up to? Had he come to terms with my leaving _yet_?

I had no good answers.

* * *

I arrived home a little late – around 9 PM, perhaps. I gave the dear landlady a quick nod before slowly walking the steps up to my rooms. Who knows what I would find when I arrived at the top.

I stood at the door, afraid to enter, but still wondering what Holmes had been up to all day. Taking a deep breath, I prepared to grasp the knob when the door suddenly flew open in a rush of wind.

Sherlock Holmes stood before me, dressed in a simple white undershirt and dark-colored pants. He stared at me in what appeared to be slight bewilderment, as if he wasn't expecting my return. His eyes were wide, and his hair was wild and unkempt. Not like this was unusual, however.

"You've been drinking," I said, my tone flat with annoyance as I gave the air a small sniff.

Ignoring my comment, Holmes glanced at my coat. "You've been to the theater?"

I held my expression of annoyance and stepped past my companion and into the room. "Yes. I went with Mary, and we had a wonderful time together."

I set my walking-stick and hat down upon a table and began to remove my coat when I heard a crash behind me.

I turned to find Holmes lying over a tipped table, in a heap of baubles and other objects that had come tumbling down with him in his fall. I rolled my eyes as he groaned, and proceeded to remove my overcoat and grasp my walking-stick in one hand.

I walked over to Holmes and jabbed him several times with my cane. "Get up," I said. "If you don't get up now, I doubt you ever will."

Holmes groaned again.

I couldn't help but give my companion a small smile. My anger had faded since this morning. "You are such an ass sometimes, Holmes," I said, reaching out to help him up.

He took my hand and grasped my other arm to pull himself up. I stared at him for a few awkward seconds before turning away in disgust. "Your breath is foul," I said, taking a seat in my old armchair. "And what have you done with my waistcoat? I haven't seen it for days, so you surely have something to do with its disappearance."

Holmes wandered over to a chair and sat down. "I have not had anything to do with your missing waistcoat."

"It's your favorite of _my_ waistcoats. You steal it constantly."

"I do not steal it. I borrow it."

"You 'borrow' it and refuse to return it."

"Precisely."

I sighed, and we sat for a few moments in silence. Eventually, Holmes was the one to break it.

"Watson."

"Hm?"

"Would you care to accompany me on a stroll of this great city tomorrow morning?"

I stared at my companion in amazement. "Since when do you care about 'strolls?' Don't you have any cases?"

"I do enjoy strolls. And, no. I've been without work for some time."

I gave Holmes' side-table a suspicious glance. His cocaine-bottle was tipped and empty.

"Holmes."

"Hm?"

I gave him a dark look.

Holmes sniffed and glanced down at the bottle. "Ah. Yes. Terribly sorry, old boy. Now, you never answered my question."

"And what was that?"

"I would be greatly pleased if you would take a walk with me through this bit of London we inhabit."

"Yes, Holmes. Alright. It would be nice if we spent some time together before my departure."

My companion glanced at me, his expression blank. He then continued to stare down at the cluttered floor.

After a few seconds, I stood from my chair. "I think I'll retire for the night. Good-night, Holmes."

* * *

I was awoken at some ungodly hour of the night by the melancholy wails of Holmes' violin. I growled into my pillow and covered my head in exasperation. This I would _not _miss.

I rolled over and was about to get up to yell at my companion when the pure sadness of his tune struck me.

I had never heard the piece he was playing before. It was slow and saddening, and it seemed to arouse my thoughts – seemed to really make me think about what my departure must be like for my dear friend. Or what things would be like without him. As I sat in my bed at 221B Baker St., I realized.

For the first time in his life, Holmes was truly miserable.

The sparkle in his eye was gone. The fire that used to burn so brightly within his mischievous spirit had faded to a dull glow. And, for the time being, his lust for new cases had dwindled to a mere shadow. Holmes had been such an incredible person before. Before my marriage. And I missed the old Sherlock Holmes. And I wondered how much of him I would miss living the rest of my life with Mary.

And I realized.

I didn't want to leave.

* * *

The next morning, I opened my eyes and a pang of fear struck my heart like a stray bullet. The thoughts I had experienced last night – were they just a dream?

I hoped and prayed that they were.

I rolled over and gave a violent start as I saw Sherlock Holmes, fully clothed, standing over me. "Awake, my dear Watson?"

My heart began to beat faster as I remembered last night. _I didn't want to leave. _Did Holmes know I had been awakened by the poignant wails of his violin?

"Yes, Holmes. Up in a moment. What time is it?"

"Only 6 AM. I will ring for breakfast."

He went away to the sitting-room as I lay in bed, my head spinning. Holmes was in a bit of a lighter mood, it seemed, but the shadow of sorrow was still somewhat plain on his fine features.

I tried to swipe away my thoughts from yesterday and got dressed. My waistcoat was still gone.

* * *

I arrived in the sitting-room not more than fifteen minutes later, and breakfast sat ready and waiting on the table. Holmes was munching on a bit of toast. "Ah!" said he, setting a flask upon the table. "There you are. Have a bit of breakfast wine, dear Watson."

I sat down and picked up the morning paper. "No new cases, then?"

"Nothing of interest to-day."

The news was indeed quite dull. A small review of the opera I had visited yesterday was present, but provided little entertainment.

"Well, Holmes," I said, picking up my wine and taking a small sip. "Where are we going to-day?"

"A stroll, friend Watson, does not need a destination, hm? Let us walk and see where fate may take us. Have some more wine."

* * *

Not more than an hour later we were picking up our coats and heading for the door when my companion suddenly turned to me. "Halloa! Halloa! What do we have here? No walking-stick, Watson?"

"I'm feeling very well to-day," said I. "I think I will try my luck without it while we are on our stroll."

Holmes raised his eyebrows. "Well, then, I am glad you are feeling better."

Holmes' lighter mood, I admit, made me a bit suspicious, but it was much nicer to be with him when his mood was not as black as the sea. I was looking forward to our stroll together.

For a while, that is all Holmes and I did. We strolled around town, enjoying the ongoing life and scenes around us. We talked, certainly – and Holmes chatted about past cases of ours, his voice tinged with nostalgia. During Holmes pleasant rambling, however, I couldn't keep the thought from my brain.

_I didn't want to leave._

While turning this matter over in my head, Holmes suddenly stopped and gave me a queer look. "Something is worrying you, Watson. Perhaps a visit to the rushing Thames would lighten your mood."

I found the request strange and rather sudden, but I agreed.

We arrived and stood upon the great London Bridge, looking over into the great swirling darkness of River Thames. It was cold, black; and for just a moment, I wished that I could leap from the bridge and forget this troubling business which was disturbing my mind.

Holmes was silent, and I stood next to him as we both stared into the churning waters.

I sighed.

"I'm sorry, Holmes."

My statement had not seemed to surprise him as I had thought it would. "Whatever for, dearest Watson?"

"I know my departure will sadden you, but I am quite sure I shall visit you as often as I can. I really don't know why you are being quite so unreasonable on the subject. As a married man, Holmes, I am not going to live with a friend rather than my wife. You really must understand, dear fellow." I kept my voice gentle, so he would not think me angry with him. I knew that he was still quite unhappy.

Holmes continued to stare into the river. "Do you remember when you and I spent a time in a cottage near Poldhu Bay?"

"Yes. The Cornish peninsula. You worked yourself sick, and we were hoping for a peaceful vacation of sorts when, not surprisingly, another case popped up."

"Precisely, dear Watson," he said, turning to me. "Do you remember what you said to me when you, quite frankly, saved us from a most terrible fate by poisonous fumes?"

I smiled at the memory. "No, Holmes. But how on Earth could _you_ remember? It was ages ago."

"We were sitting upon the lawn, and I believe you said, 'It is my greatest joy and privilege to help you.'"

I glanced at Holmes, slightly suspicious. "What are you getting at?"

Holmes stared at me, determined to hold my gaze, no matter how much I tried to look away. His own dazzling gray eyes sparkled faintly with the cunning and mischief I had watched dwindle over these past few weeks. Finally, Holmes said, "Whatever happened to that, Watson? Whatever happened to the days you were always by my side in nearly every case I took upon myself to solve? When I barely had the words 'Will you accompany me?' out of my mouth before you had already agreed? Even the lazy days, Watson, were more interesting when you were there to come with me on simple visits to the theater or to the park."

I gave Holmes an irritated look, but I was hurt from the truth of his words. "I got _married_, Holmes! Why else would I leave?"

"But _why_, dear Watson, when you enjoy life here with me, at our lodgings at 221B Baker, much more than you ever could as a family man?"

I was getting a bit angrier now. "And what makes you believe that I would? You know hardly anything of my relationship with Mary. You never visit her! As I said before, the way you're acting makes me glad I am moving. I wish you would act like a normal person and just _get over it_." I needed him to get over it, because I knew that I could not get over _him_ if he was first not over _me_. Glaring at the sky, I said bitterly, "You don't know that I would enjoy life more with you."

Holmes stared at me, hard, and said, "But I know _you_. And you do _not love Mary_."

My temper flared and I saw swirls of red before my eyes. "You cannot possibly believe that I would stay with you, Holmes, after everything you have said to me! You are trying to destroy my relationship with Mary! This is what this whole trip is about, isn't it?" I cried, throwing up my arms in disgust. "Good-bye, Holmes. I am leaving to pack the rest of my things, and then I shall move away and live at Baker Street _no more_."

I stormed away, leaving Sherlock Holmes behind me.

Upon arriving home, I began to shove my remaining books and other items into a box, throwing them down in anger. Mrs. Hudson had inquired upon the absence of my friend as well as my foul mood, but I didn't want to talk. Not to anyone. Looking around for other possessions of mine, I gave a cry of annoyance.

Where the hell was that damn waistcoat?!

I collapsed into my armchair and held my aching head in my hands.

Why was Holmes _always right_?

I knew, somewhere in the back of my mind, that he was right. Right about everything but one matter - I _did_ love Mary. It was just that my love for her was nothing like my relationship with Holmes. I couldn't trust Mary to always be there or to always have my back, no matter the situation.

But I knew that I could always trust Holmes. Today, I had seen more of Holmes' heart then ever before, and I knew that he trusted me just as much. I knew that I was his greatest friend and most loyal companion, and that I shouldn't blame him for being so upset when I was just getting up and walking out of his life, and there was nothing he could do.

I had gotten angry at Holmes because he was right. I had left him standing upon a bridge in the middle of London. I had taken a cab back to Baker Street.

And I had regretted the entire thing.

Even if he could be a positively undeniable ass at times, and even though he stole my clothes, tried numerous times to kill my dog, and nearly killed himself via cocaine on several occasions, I could not deny the thought now.

I didn't want to leave.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes stood on a bridge in the middle of London, his face gray and grim, and he knew that it was his last chance to try and stop the inevitable.

John Watson was leaving for good.

And he was leaving tonight.

* * *

It was evening by the time Holmes returned. I was nearly done packing my things, and I sat smoking a cigarette when he walked in through the door. I watched as he sat down in his favorite armchair, lit his pipe, and smoked in silence, an eerie stillness in his demeanor.

An hour or so went by, and the two of us said nothing. I smoked cigarette after cigarette, never wanting to stop, never wanting the clock to strike the 8th hour. That's when I was scheduled to leave behind years of memories, the all-too-familiar surroundings, and Sherlock Holmes.

My heart grew heavier and heavier as the minutes ticked by. Seven forty-five, I stood and took an uneven breath. I was still angry about earlier, but even if I had wanted to speak, I was at a loss at what to say.

Snuffing out my last cigarette a bit slower than usual, I walked to the sitting-room table and picked up my hat.

"Watson-" Holmes began.

"I don't want to hear it, Holmes. I must be leaving now."

Holmes stood and shook his head, giving me a desperate look. "Don't go, Watson. Don't leave. _You know_ that you're better suited here. _I know_ that you are. Are you really going to leave all of this behind?" he said, gesturing to the wonderful mess of a room. "What about our rooms? And you'll miss all the adventure, Watson. You know you're afraid of a life without slightly dangerous exploits and excitement -"

I cut Holmes short. I wasn't going to argue any longer. "Good-bye, Holmes. I will come and visit you someday. But now, I must go home to my _wife_, and there's nothing you can say to stop me."

I picked up my remaining box of things and began to walk to the door.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes stood and tried to make John Watson stay. A pitiful, desperate plead. It was sad, his great mind fumbling for words. He just wanted it to end. He just wanted John Watson to forget his wife and to say with him. To never leave him.

And as Sherlock Holmes watched John Watson head for the door, he tried one final time.

One word.

* * *

"John."

That one word hit me like a freight-train, and I stopped dead in my tracks. Never before had Holmes called me by my first name.

I turned to him, my mouth open a bit. "Holmes," I said, so quietly I doubt he had heard me.

I set down my box on the floor and looked at Holmes. His expression was lifeless. He moved his mouth, as if to say something, but no words were spoken.

And I knew I had to tell him.

I walked over to the great Sherlock Holmes and embraced him, because I knew that there was nothing I could do.

I pulled away and looked my friend in the eyes, my hand placed gently on his shoulder. "I'm sorry. I know that you've been right. You've always been right. I want to stay here with you, Holmes, and I was a stupid man to not have realized that earlier. But now, old boy, it's… it's just too late. I can't stay, Holmes, but… maybe it will make you feel better now that you know I will never be truly happy with Mary. Isn't that what you've always wanted?" I said, with a small half-hearted smile at my companion.

Holmes stared at me, his sad expression unchanging. He said nothing.

I leaned in and whispered into my friend's ear, and it was a rare statement, for I would never utter it again.

"Good-bye, Sherlock."

* * *

John Watson had been gone for a night and a day, and Sherlock Holmes sat smoking his clay pipe in John Watson's favorite armchair. Taking the pipe from his mouth, he paused for a moment and stared out of the grimy Baker Street window.

Setting his pipe down, he stood up and slipped his hand underneath the armchair's seat-cushion, feeling around for something.

Sherlock Holmes began to pull something out from underneath the cushion, and it could only ever be one thing.

An olive-green waistcoat.


	2. Part Two

_**Part Two**_

_I: Sherlock Holmes_

Mrs. Mary Watson was quite an interesting character, because she was an individual who was viewed very differently in the eyes of two very close partners.

Dr. John Watson – the beloved associate of the great Sherlock Holmes, was married to the lady, and he lived a peaceful, yet usually dull, life with her.

However, Sherlock Holmes hated Mary Watson with all of his heart, because she had taken away the one thing that mattered most to him.

John Watson and Sherlock Holmes would always mesh perfectly, always moving together with flawless steps on every case. But since the arrival of Mary Morstan, since the marriage of John to Mary, and since the departure of John from 221B Baker St., things had changed. Changed too significantly for the likes of Sherlock Holmes.

He sat alone, every day, in the familiar rooms, taking on various cases to keep his brain busy. Without his Watson, the cases he took were never recorded, but Holmes had been told several times by his friend before he left to try documenting the adventures himself, although he had never taken up the responsibility until now.

One ordinary, uneventful day, Sherlock Holmes was sifting through the notes that he had taken during his previous cases without Watson, and moving them about and putting them in messy piles. It was late-afternoon, and the fading sun was shining through the grimy windows that lined the room.

Holmes sighed. He couldn't pick a certain case. How was he to record it as Watson had? Watson had illuminated the detective's talents through his poetic writings and made the stories interesting and pleasing to read. Holmes was focused on facts, and he wasn't sure if he could make the report interesting enough to read. He wanted to, however, because his cases were his career - they were the most important thing in his life.

Well, second-most important.

Holmes gave another small sigh. It had been months. He still missed his dear Watson.

Grumbling, Holmes pushed the papers aside with a swipe of his hand, sending some of them fluttering through the air. He retreated to Watson's old armchair (he hadn't sat in his own in ages) and picked up his violin, playing a few sullen notes out of pure frustration.

He wanted his Watson back so badly. _Why_ did he have to marry that horrid Mary? She was dull. Plain. He hated that woman.

Shaking his head, Sherlock Holmes threw down his violin and paced around the room, rubbing his distraught face in exasperation.

Presently, the patient landlady, Mrs. Hudson, came around and inquired to Holmes' irritated footsteps, but he brushed her aside like an annoying speck of dust.

Eventually, Holmes collapsed into Watson's armchair and fell asleep, his mind thoroughly exhausted, his violin and bow discarded off to one side.

* * *

I yawned. It was mid-day, and the sun was shining with a cheery glow through my sitting-room window. It was a lovely day outside, but I was sitting in my parlor, at my house, with my wife, doing nothing. Despite everything I had, I was _bored_.

Though my work had been busy lately, nothing particularly interesting had happened at home. Mary sat quietly reading a book on the couch opposite to me, and the ticking of the clock and the steady flipping of her pages were the only noises in the room.

These past few months we had lived together had been very... _normal_, and we went out every once in a while to have a _normal _dinner, or visit the theater and act like _normal_ people, or enjoy life as a _normal _couple.

But normal was boring.

Yawning again, I stood and stretched my arms. Mary looked curiously at me, a small smile on her pretty face. "Going somewhere, John?"

"Uhhm… yes, actually, I, um… think I'll go visit Holmes."

"Good. You haven't seen him for a while."

"Yes. Who knows how he's been getting on without me. He's probably pretended to hang himself again."

Mary chuckled, a light, tinkling laugh. "Well, have a nice time. Be home for dinner."

She rose and gave me a quick kiss as I threw on my jacket and grabbed my walking-stick. Smiling, I said, "Good-bye, dear."

* * *

Sherlock Holmes slowly opened his eyes.

He had no idea how long he'd been sleeping, but it's not like he really cared. No cases, no Watson, nothing of entertainment. Damn it, even Gladstone would provide entertainment as an experiment. But he, too, had left with Watson.

Groaning, Holmes sat up and rubbed his eyes.

Glancing around the room for something to do, he spotted the cocaine-bottle upon the mantle. He gave it a long, hard glare, and then Holmes suddenly jumped up and took it in his hand, only to find that the little glass bottle was empty.

He threw the bottle to the floor in a sudden flash of anger, where it shattered and sent tiny pieces of glass flying across the carpet, and they reflected the sunlight shining through the only window with the drapes not quite drawn.

The irritated detective glared at the pretty specks of light for a second before flying to the window and swiping the drapes shut with a snarl of annoyance. The room grew dark and shadowy.

Holmes sat down in his desk chair and sighed.

He was going insane.

Why did he have to be out of cocaine? Why _now_, of all times?

Looking around once again for something to do, Holmes saw the papers scattered on the floor from earlier that day.

Chronicle a case. It was something, at least. Something to do.

Besides, Watson had wanted him to do it.

Leaning down and ruffling the papers together in a messy pile, Holmes began to search through them for an interesting case, but with little enthusiasm.

He picked up the notes for one of his more recent cases and set them aside for a moment while he swept the rest of the papers onto the floor.

Holmes lit a small candle to provide just a little light around his desk. He then took a few blank sheets of foolscap paper and a bottle of ink, setting them up accordingly, and began to write.

"_THE ADVENTURE OF THE BLANCHED SOLDIER__"_

Holmes paused. He wished Watson were here to see that he had listened to him and really had started to record one of his cases.

Sighing, he continued writing for about ten minutes, not really thinking about what he was putting on paper, really, but rather just… _writing_. And Holmes wrote what first came into his head and in the order it came in.

And then, he paused again, and thought for just a moment before slowly scrawling:

"_The good Watson had at that time deserted me for a wife, the only selfish action which I can recall in our association. I was alone."_

Holmes stopped and stared longingly at the paper.

* * *

I stepped into 221B Baker Street, and a smile was instantly upon my face. God, how I missed this place. A wave of nostalgia washed over me, and I closed my eyes with a sigh. I hadn't been here in so long. It was exactly the same, every time I visited – upstairs, I assumed, there would be the usual papers strew all over, chemical stains on the carpet, and furniture arranged very precisely, just the way Holmes liked it.

I missed Holmes.

I walked through the room, taking one slow step at a time, looking at everything, wishing that all of it was at least half-mine, like it used to be.

But I was just being ridiculous. I really did love Mary. She was sweet, kind, and a most perfect wife.

But she was just… boring.

Life with her was so simple and picturesque, and our large house and many wonderful possessions would make any man jealous, and I felt bad for not wanting exactly what a man my age was supposed to want. Mary did so much for me, and yet, even with everything I had, I was not happy. Not happy enough.

I had tasted the adventure, the action, and the thrill of adrenaline pumping through my veins with every case, every _moment_ spent with Holmes. He was a rare man, and I knew that I was fortunate enough to have been accepted into his quiet, singular life as a close friend and companion, and I knew that I had utterly abandoned my greatest friend and one of the most interesting and exhilarating lives a man could ever hoped to have lived.

But most of all, I knew what it was like. Like to _live_ with Sherlock Holmes.

Or, at least, I used to.

My name was John Watson, and my life seemed to come and go in stages, and the stage of my life that was Sherlock Holmes had slowly but surely come to an end.

And I had never _really_ wanted that to happen, but its occurrence was indeed _my entire fault_.

Taking a deep breath, I walked up the stairs and towards the sitting-room door with quiet steps, not wanting to disturb Holmes if he was in the middle of some important experiment.

I opened the door to find Holmes sitting at his desk, staring at what appeared to be a bit of writing scrawled upon some old foolscap. What was he doing?

Stepping lightly, I crept up right behind Holmes and peered over his shoulder. He didn't move. Did he even know I was there?

I looked down at the paper on his desk, and, to my great surprise, it appeared he had begun to record a case of his. One that I had not been present for.

A rare thing happened, then – Sherlock Holmes _jumped_, surprised at my sudden reappearance and close quarters. He must not have heard me enter.

Turning to face me, Holmes blinked several times and observed me reading over his shoulder. He quickly jumbled the papers together and crumpled them into a wad, which he quickly threw to the side. "Watson!" said he, with some surprise. "I did not hear you enter. I was just recording a case which I had undertaken during your absence."

"Yes, I gathered that," I said, taking off my hat and jacket as Holmes snuffed the candle lit on his desk and opened a few of the drapes to light up the old room.

"Some wine, dear Watson? Or a cigarette, perhaps? I have not seen you for some time."

"One of each, please," I said, stretching my arms. "What on earth is this?"

I bent to the floor and observed tiny specks of glass that were strewn all over the carpet. "What happened here, Holmes?"

"Nothing, old boy. Just a bit of an accident," Holmes folded the edge of the carpet over upon itself and ushered me to my chair. "Here is your cigarette, Watson. I will return in a moment with the wine."

Holmes went away to fetch the drink as I walked over to what used to be my old armchair. As soon as I sat, however, I noticed something strange about the seat. It was unusually lumpy.

Furrowing my brow in confusion, I stood and reached underneath the cushion – and, to my surprise, felt something hidden beneath.

Placing my hand on the arm-rest for support, I slowly pulled out what had been concealed beneath my seat.

…It couldn't be.

My old olive-green waistcoat, worn with age, was clutched in my trembling hand. I had thought it utterly lost ages ago. Before I had moved in with Mary, even. Had I really left it here? Or had Holmes…

I suddenly caught the faint sound of his step on the wood floor, not far away, and I quickly threw the waistcoat back underneath the cushion and sat in my chair just as he appeared.

"Look here, Watson," said Holmes, gazing at a rather fine bottle of old wine. "A bit of Marguax, your favorite."

He smiled at me as he set the wine down on the small table between us, and a flutter of bittersweet joy went through me as I understood how happy he was that I was here.

Giving him a small smile back, I stood and walked over to a large cabinet covered in many random objects and messy papers. I bent down and opened a drawer to retrieve the only corkscrew I could remember this particular apartment ever owning.

Holmes stared at me as I strode back over and opened the wine, digging the corkscrew in deep and pulling hard until the cork finally gave.

Straightening myself, wine in one hand, corkscrew in the other, I gave Holmes a strange look. "What on earth are you looking at, old boy?"

"Nothing, nothing," said he, squirming in his chair with a pleased look on his face. "I just find it amusing that you remember exactly where our corkscrew was. It's the only one in this entire residence, you know."

I shook my head. "How could I not? It hasn't changed its storage spot since I moved in _here_, ages and ages ago."

Holmes grabbed a few wine glasses perched on a nearby chest and poured himself and I a glass as I took a seat.

"So, Watson," said he, his voice tinged with a bit of a mocking tone. "How has your life with Mary been?"

"Holmes."

"Just asking, old boy, just asking," he said with a smirk. "However, Mary aside, I do know a bit of how you have been faring these past few months."

"Oh, really," I said, taking a sip. The wine was excellent. "And what might that be?"

"Well, beside the simple facts that you have gained approximately ten pounds since I saw you last, that you have had trouble sleeping, that your work has been very busy recently, and that you have done quite a bit of gambling that has lost you a fair amount of money, I can deduce nothing else about your current life."

I chuckled. "I will never truly know how you do these things, Holmes," leaning back in my chair. "Do tell me how you came to these conclusions." I knew of my friend's fondness of his abilities, and I felt no shame in allowing him to embellish them.

"As to the extra weight, I observe that the waistcoat you are wearing at present has the bottom-most button undone, suggesting that it has become too tight-fitting for comfort when all the buttons are securely fastened."

"Yes, Holmes. And the sleep?"

"Your eyes have dark circles under them, due to poor sleep, and my point is further defined when I see that the sides of your face have a bit of stubble, when I know you to shave each morning. Thus, you have forgotten this morning, so your sleep must have been quite unfortunate last night."

I had indeed gotten a horrid sleep the previous night, and the thought of shaving this morning had never even entered my mind until Holmes had mentioned it.

"Why, it all so clear when you explain it! And yes, I do admit my sleep has been bad these past few nights."

Holmes leaned forward in his chair and squinted at me. "Whatever for, dearest Watson?"

I rubbed my eyes. "And my busy work, Holmes? The gambling?"

He smiled again and leaned back. "Your work schedule is sticking out of your pocket-" Holmes said, pausing to reach his long thin arm forward and seize it. "-and I could see this bit at the top, which is quite full and busy, as is the rest of your schedule. Dear me, Watson. This is quite overworking. However, I see that today was one of your few days with open hours."

"The gambling?"

"I notice that your hat is not very shiny, as is the same with your coat and shoes. These things are only pleasantries, simple and small trifles, so the cost would not be spent on cleaning them unless there was plenty of money to do so."

"Yes, Holmes. I lost quite a bit a few weeks ago, while Mary was out with a few of her friends."

"Well, then, there you are," said he, lighting his pipe.

A few minutes of silence passed by before I snuffed out my cigarette and took another sip of wine. "But enough about me," said I, "What have you been up to?"

I leaned back in my chair, which was so worn with age and so very comfy, and I couldn't help but wonder.

Had Holmes really kept my waistcoat?

* * *

I was back at my own house right in time for dinner, just as Mary had asked, as I thought punctuality was important; however, I had been regretful to leave 221B Baker Street. I wouldn't be able to visit Holmes again in some months, and I had really enjoyed myself. It was always nice to see him.

"There you are, just in time, like always," Mary said with a small cough. "Dinner's almost ready. How was your time with Holmes?"

I gave her a little smile. "Wonderful."

* * *

_II: Mary Watson_

"Care to go for a walk, dear?" I asked pleasantly as Mary entered our plainly furnished sitting-room one fine Sunday afternoon. I had a few hours off of work and thought I would spend some time with my good wife.

She gave me a weak smile. "Why, of course, John. I'd be delighted. Just give me a few minutes to get ready."

I watched her exit and turn down the long hallway to the powder-room, and I took notice of her slow footsteps and pale face. I glanced worriedly in her direction as she disappeared behind the door frame.

Furrowing my brow, I folded up the Sunday morning paper with a satisfying _crunch_ of newsprint and stood to stretch my weary legs. I waited for a few minutes before realizing I had some time before Mary would return.

I took a seat and picked up my half-consumed cup of tea, taking small sips. The tea was cold and bitter, now, but I continued to drink until only the small leaves remained in a soggy clump at the bottom.

I became rather distracted as I sat, staring out of the sitting-room window, down at the roads, watching the men and women of London wander through the muddy streets, heading toward whatever destination they desired at the present moment. I tried half-heartedly to put Holmes' examination method and powers of observation to use as I watched the life below, but with little success.

Eventually it came to my mind that Mary had been gone for some time, and I rose from the small sofa I had been seated on to see how she was getting on.

"Mary?" I called down the hallway, to no response. With hurried steps I quickly arrived at the door to the powder-room and tapped on it several times with my cane. "Mary? Is everything all right?"

I became nervous at the silence that came back to me, and paused for a moment before slowly opening the door with a quick turn of the knob.

To my horror, Mary lay upon the floor, the frilly ends of the mahogany dress she had chosen to wear billowing out around her feet like the tail of some exotic fish. I leaped to her side and tapped her shoulder. "Mary? Mary, dear, are you all right?"

She had no response. I leaned down to her pale lips and could hear a faint whisper of breath fluttering through her lungs.

Scooping my poor wife into my arms, I rushed her down the hall into the bedroom, where it was more private. I lay her upon the bed and quickly loosened her corset, which I had learned to be very constricting upon a woman's torso. Leaning Mary's fragile head against a large comfortable pillow, I listened to her breathing again. It was a little stronger, but still very faint.

I opened the side-table's drawer and retrieved a small bottle of brandy, which I raised to her mouth in the hopes it might return some color to her cheeks. I breathed a sigh of relief when her eyes fluttered open and her gaze rested upon me.

A small smile settled on her lips. "John," she wheezed. "There you are, sweet John."

"Mary!" I cried, my voice filled with joy. "Oh, Mary, darling, are you all right? You gave me quite a scare!"

A pained look crossed her face, and she swallowed uneasily. "I'm not feeling very well," said she, closing her eyes. "Do you mind if we skip the walk today?"

"Of course, you need rest. Here," said I, gently pulling out the large bed-sheets and laying them on top of her, "I'll get you some water. Don't hesitate to call me if anything should arise. I will be here in a moment."

She smiled. "I love you, John."

"I love you too, Mary."

* * *

_Two months later._

Sherlock Holmes gave a loud, annoyed sigh. The good Watson hadn't visited him in some time. His last visit had been very enjoyable, even if it had been nearly two months ago. Of course, Holmes had taken up a few interesting cases in the meantime, but they were indeed rather lonely without his Watson.

The detective was slowly adjusting to life without his companion, though he still missed him dearly.

Sometimes, on rare occasions, he would think back to the night of John Watson's departure, but it never brought any emotion to his face. Never to his face.

But, Holmes never failed to smile when he unearthed the only thing left of John Watson from when he still resided in Baker Street, the thing not-so-carefully hidden under the doctor's armchair's seat-cushion.

Now, Holmes had recently completed a case of his, and so, with his extra time, decided to spend a few days relaxing at home. At present, he was sitting upon the floor, staring at his desk, observing the table-legs.

Around noon, Mrs. Hudson came upstairs and brought a bit of lunch for the strange occupant at 221B, to which he hurriedly dismissed and didn't bother touching. He wasn't hungry.

Indeed, the day was turning out to be a rather lazy one, and Holmes conducted a few chemical experiments which brought upon no real entertainment or discovery. Nothing was really gained from his brief studies, excluding the carpet, which gained a few more permanent stains.

And still the day dragged on, boring and very uneventful, with nothing interesting at the theater, no clients, _nothing._

10 PM. Holmes was curled up in his chair, clay pipe sticking out of his mouth, the slight haze of smoke slowly filling the room. Holmes' eyelids were drooping, and the small fire that was burning was beginning to fade. He rubbed his eyes and tapped the ashes from his pipe, standing and stretching. He quietly carried out his nightly routine – put out the fire, change into his sleeping-clothes, and read the morning paper, because he had been too lazy to look it over when it had arrived.

Then, time for bed, and tomorrow, he'd wake up to the same empty apartment, the same gray city, and everything just the way he'd left it the day before. And Sherlock Holmes always knew that this dull schedule would never change. Not tonight, not tomorrow, not the next day, week, or year. There was no one _to_ change it - not until a client arose, which wasn't very often.

But for once, the great Sherlock Holmes was very, _very_ wrong.

* * *

"Mr. Holmes."

Holmes rolled over in his bed and mumbled. The sky outside was still very dark. It must have been the middle of the night. What did the pestering landlady want?

"Mr. Holmes, please get up."

The detective didn't move. Maybe if he ignored her, she would go away.

"It's Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes. He's-"

Holmes leaped from his bed and was down the stairs before Mrs. Hudson had time to react.

* * *

I watched the landlady disappear up the stairs to fetch Holmes, and I sank into the chair I had seated myself into not moments before, my head in my hands, digging my fingernails into my scalp.

Hardly thirty seconds had passed before I heard Holmes' step on the floorboards above, and I looked up to see his pale face peering at me from the landing.

"Watson."

I looked at him, and I could not keep the pain from my face. I opened my mouth to speak, but my words were caught.

I could feel my eyes begin to water, and I looked down at the floor, clearing my throat with an uneasy cough.

"Holmes."

I heard him descend down the stairs and cross the small front room to me, and I looked up to see his face, and he was acting very calm, and I tried to do the same.

I stood to meet Holmes, and he placed his hand very gently on my arm, quietly murmuring, "Let's go upstairs." I knew that he could easily see the heavy look of depression that clouded my face.

We reached the top just as Mrs. Hudson came to the door, and Holmes talked quietly, asking for some hot tea, to which I was very grateful.

I hadn't been here in two months, but every time I visited…

Always the same.

I sat down in my old armchair, and I assumed, by the flatness of the cushion, that the waistcoat wasn't there.

Holmes lit the fire and offered me a cigarette, which I declined. Mrs. Hudson was quick with the tea, and she told us to leave the pot and cups out when we were finished – she would pick them up in the morning.

Indeed, it was quite late, but Holmes didn't seem to be phased by the hour. He poured me a cup of tea, and handed it to me before taking a seat in his armchair, across from me.

We sat in silence for a while, sipping our tea, and I knew that Holmes would not speak first – he was letting me take as much time as I needed to work up the courage to talk.

Eventually, I sat back and rubbed my face. It was indeed very calming, being back at Baker Street, but the situation at hand was so terrible that even in the familiar surroundings I found it hard to truly relax.

I cleared my throat.

"She's very, very sick, Holmes."

I didn't need to elaborate, because I trusted my friend would not need any additional details to perceive who 'she' was.

His somber expression remained unchanged as he said quietly, "I trust you'll be able to care for her better than any other doctor in London. I have faith in you, Watson. She'll be all right."

Holmes, who never had faith in anything, had spoken the very words I both wanted and hated to hear. His words were kind, but they were lies, and I looked at him with grave eyes.

"She's… going to die, Holmes."

I saw him freeze for just a moment, and I gave him a few seconds to absorb this information which I knew would tear his mind apart just as it had mine.

For so long, I had wanted to return. For so long, Holmes had wanted me to return. Return to Baker Street. Return to him.

And now, we were both finally getting what we wanted, but at such a horrible, terrible price that it would utterly destroy me for many months before I could fully recover. And Holmes would have to watch me fall apart, and there was nothing he could do about it.

We sat in silence for many minutes, our tea long cold before Holmes finally spoke.

"I'm… so sorry, old boy. I really am."

He shook his head a little in disbelief, and I glanced at my watch. It was nearly 4 AM.

"I need to get back," I said, taking my jacket and hat. "I won't be back here for a long time, Holmes. But… thank you. For being here. For me."

I cleared my throat for what seemed like the thousandth time that night, and nodded at my friend, who had stood to see me out the door.

I exited Baker Street and walked down the black streets of London, the dog-cart service unavailable at such a ridiculous time of night, and the cobblestones lined with silver from the dim moonlight above guided me back home to my poor Mary.

My poor, poor Mary.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes had taken in the words of John Watson, and he was more moved then perhaps ever before.

He was getting his Watson back, but not for months. Possibly years.

And when his Watson did finally return, he would be so broken that it would be a long while before he would truly be himself again.

But Sherlock Holmes would wait. He would wait for the return of Watson, and he would do everything in his power to help Watson heal, no matter how long it took.

And as his companion of many long, singular years departed Baker Street that night, Sherlock Holmes quietly closed the door behind him and whispered, "Good-bye, John."

* * *

_III: John Watson_

Mary had gone peacefully, at least.

She had passed away in her sleep, and I had told her I loved her the night before, so she would always know. I told her every night. Just in case.

Influenza had been a hard thing for both of us, her suffering, and me, as well, watching her deteriorate before my eyes. She was still very beautiful, even in her sick state. Her pale face would always smile at me when I came to check on her.

It was hard. Every morning, I awoke and went to check on Mary, and I didn't know if I would arrive to find her still breathing. And it was so painful, the morning that I finally found her when she wasn't.

God, how I missed my Mary.

* * *

_Four months later._

John Watson was coming back.

It had been several months since the death of his wife, and he had needed some time alone before he was ready to return to Baker Street. Sherlock Holmes didn't push him. The detective understood that he was never _always_ needed. Not even close.

But John Watson was finally coming back, and the recovery phase that was Sherlock Holmes would slowly start to begin for the doctor. Although Holmes was not the best at conveying emotions like sympathy or comfort, he knew that it would not be too difficult expressing them towards his very good friend.

Watson was coming later that day, to begin bringing his belongings back into Baker Street. It would be the first time Holmes had seen him since that very late call in the night, when he had learned of Mary's condition and Watson's soon-to-be broken character. The few days after that visit had been very heart-wrenching.

But Holmes did not have time to dwell on the past. It was time to focus on the present, to wait for Watson, to help him pack away and to talk to him. To not mention Mary. To only talk of happy things. To share some wine and a meal after.

Holmes sighed. It was indeed going to be very nice to have his Watson back again. Very, very nice.

* * *

I picked up my box of essentials I had brought with me on this first trip back to Baker Street in four months, and I knocked on the door a few times with my cane. I waited for a moment before I heard the clicking of the lock and then the smiling face of the old landlady looking up at me.

"Oh, Doctor," she said, "You're here. It's so good to see you again. I hope you are doing all right. Mr. Holmes has been waiting for you, no doubt. Please come inside."

I muttered a quiet thank-you and began to walk the steps back up to my old rooms. They were _my_ rooms again, I kept telling myself. I had my old bedroom back, my old night-stand, and my old arm-chair.

My old arm-chair.

Mrs. Hudson hurried up the stairs ahead of me and opened the door for me. "Welcome back, Dr. Watson," she said, smiling.

And there was Holmes, waiting for me.

"Hello, dearest Watson," he said, giving me one of his rare smiles. "It is really very good to see you again. I am very happy to have you back with me. Here," he said, taking the box from my hands, "I'll help you unpack."

He pushed a few things off of a nearby table and set the box down, picking up whatever object was sitting on top.

"A notebook," said he, flipping through what were only blank pages. "For future adventures, dear Watson?"

He beamed again, a smaller – yet equally happy – smile.

"Yes, Holmes, I hope to record our adventures again someday. I quite missed them."

"Ours, indeed," Holmes said. "Speaking of which, I have this for you."

He rushed away to his bedroom, and when he returned, my breath was caught and I could not believe my eyes.

"Here," Holmes said. "You must have left it here. I really am sorry, old boy, I had always forgotten to return it. Rather silly of me, really."

I took my old green waistcoat in my hands and held it fondly for a moment, remembering events past.

I gazed up at my very greatest friend, and finally, for the first time in many months, I smiled.

* * *

A/N: And this is where the short but sweet era of John's waistcoat comes to an end. But, don't fret, because it will make some cameo appearences in future stories. :)

Thank you so much for reading. I love you all.

_finalproblem_


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